Preacher's Blood Hunt by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2013-10-29T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 22

Preacher had only the vaguest idea where Fort Druke was. Under different circumstances, he might have waited until morning before he started his search for the place, but as long as Will Gardner and Gray Otter were Druke’s prisoners, he didn’t have that luxury. If he waited, the two of them might well be dead before he found Druke’s stronghold.

He knew the cabins were somewhere close to the mountains that ringed the valley. It made sense to follow their great curving circle, since he was fairly close to those mountains when he’d finished burying Pete Karnes and the other trappers who’d been ambushed by Druke’s men.

Sooner or later he was bound to come to Fort Druke.

He didn’t say any words over the graves, just mounted up and rode away. Words sometimes made a difference, he supposed, at least for the folks left behind when somebody died, but in this case they wouldn’t.

Any loved ones the trappers had were hundreds of miles away. The best thing Preacher could do for them, whether they ever knew it or not, was to see that justice was done.

With darkness cloaking the valley, the going was maddeningly slow. The floor of the broad depression that formed King’s Crown wasn’t flat and level. Hills, ridges, gullies, and ravines blocked Preacher’s path from time to time and forced him to detour.

In addition, weariness settled into his bones. The day had been a long one, and he wasn’t as young as he’d once been. He was far from being old, but he wasn’t a wild young hellion anymore.

The stars wheeled through the ebony skies overhead as Preacher searched for Fort Druke. Hours passed.

It might take him until morning to locate Druke’s hideout, he mused. He was keenly aware that Blood Eye might be torturing the prisoners while he searched.

He couldn’t do anything about that except keep going, Preacher told himself.

Dog ranged far ahead of him. Most of the time, Preacher didn’t know where the big cur was. But long after midnight—judging by the stars—Dog came bounding up to him and barked.

Preached hauled back on Horse’s reins and brought the stallion to a halt. Dog sat down on his haunches and whined.

“You find something, Dog?” If Preacher had had something belonging to Gardner or Gray Otter, he could have given Dog the scent and told him to hunt. If Dog had been searching for the fort, it was because he had picked up on what Preacher wanted. At times it seemed that Dog and Horse were connected to him in an almost supernatural way.

Dog barked again in answer to Preacher’s question.

Preacher swung down from the saddle. “All right, let’s go take a look.”

He tied Horse and the pack animal to a tree, took his rifle, and set off on foot after Dog. The big, wolf like creature stayed close enough for Preacher to follow, instead of vanishing into the darkness.

Preacher figured they had gone about half a mile when he caught a whiff of wood smoke. Out on the frontier that could mean one of only two things.

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